


a mockery of you

by nonbinarywithaknife (littleboxes)



Series: dimension 20 [60]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Campaign 05: A Crown of Candy, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, POV Second Person, the inherent horror of facing an endurance predator (or. fighter), veggies get fucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25743928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleboxes/pseuds/nonbinarywithaknife
Summary: You are standing in a field of pink sweetgrass and you are watching a knight wade his way through your unit like a knife through butter and you pray to the Bulb for strength and for courage and as he turns away from the body of your comrade, he locks eyes with you.
Series: dimension 20 [60]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706107
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	a mockery of you

**Author's Note:**

> just. thinking about how utterly fucking terrifying it would be to fight against theo in the finale. my boy singlehandedly tanked a full army unit and WON and i,,,, ahhhh

You are standing in a field of pink sweetgrass in front of Castle Candy and you can feel the holy light of the Bulb give you strength as you march forward to rid the land of these heretics. Blasphemers.

You look to the side and see the Mace of the Faith, and you are too far away to see the fear in his eyes. His faith inspires you, and you hold your blade higher.

As you march you see what stands in your way and you would laugh.

One man, standing alone in golden armor. A single knight, against an army. A shield on his arm, a blade at his side, and nothing else. You think, as your unit draws closer, that you almost feel sorry for him.

Your unit reaches him and he begins to swing his blade. It cuts your fellows but the wounds are shallow, and again you want to laugh. It's almost insulting, you think, feeling the blade nick your leg.

You swing at the knight and miss, and your sword hits his armor with a clang.

It breaks the air with a chorus of metallic clangs as your fellows do the same, and for a second you're satisfied of his death until the blades move away and the knight still stands, armor scratched but unpierced.

He keeps marching forward and you feel his blade swing at you again. And again. And again.

You swing back at him but the same metallic clang greets you every time. It grates against your ears. You're beginning to think it's a mockery, and you swing harder, and he does not stop.

Sweat drips down his face, same as yours, but his is not mixed with blood.

You realize with horror as you stumble backward that he is marching forward towards _you_.

There is a grim smile on his face and as he swings the blade down against you he bares his teeth and as you hold your sword your hands are shaking and they will not stop.

You notice, at some point, when the blood has long overtaken the sweat and your armor works more to trap you than to protect you, that the knight's shield _glows_ with a heretical magic.

Something about it is familiar, you think. You take another hit from the sword in your side and fall to the ground.

The memory hits you, of the knight at the tournament. The Candian Lord Commander. You look away from the shield and to the sword that is swinging down onto your neck.

Its name comes to you, in your final moments.

The cold blade of Battle pop is driven into your sternum, and you see no more.

You are standing in a field of pink sweetgrass and you are watching a knight wade his way through your unit like a knife through butter and you pray to the Bulb for strength and for courage and as he turns away from the body of your comrade, he locks eyes with you.

You brandish your blade with as much courage as you can muster, and the knight marches forward.

You raise your sword to fight, and you know that you are dead.


End file.
